I have been so scattered during the first month of 2017 that my thoughts can only come in a list of bullet points.
In which I revisit my twelve-year-old self to talk about these past twelve months and my twenty-four-year-old self.
The beauty of moving to a new city is that you can become whoever you want to be when you get there. I, for some reason, became a writer.
While I am not sorry to see the back of November 2016, I know that I got more this month than I had originally bargained for.
Even the spaces I thought were safe have been sullied. Still, tomorrow I will wake and put on my armor.
After one of the longest nights of my life, I refuse to give in to divisive thoughts, and instead seek unity.
Several years, dozens of notebooks and hundreds of stories, poems and blog posts later, I still seek validation for my writer identity.